Harry Potter and the Fanfiction Affliction
by Noir Lime Canuto
Summary: Poor Harry Potter thinks he's about to win the Tri-Wizard Tournament, but thanks to a tricky portkey he finds himself in a strange world that's so bizarre it's as if a lonely teenage girl came up with it. Will he find his way out?


_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. Harry Potter is the sole property of J.K. Rowling, and I am in no way associated with her, or any of her affiliates._

_Warning: This Fan-fiction is not to be taken particularly seriously, and over-seriousness may result in bloating or perminent-scowls. If laughter continues for more than thirty seconds, please contact your doctor, or even a mate's doctor. Please note that this takes place towards the end of the fourth book._

**Harry Potter and the Fan-fiction Affliction**

_Chapter One; Symptoms_

It hadn't been an ordinary object! It was a port-key! It was all part of Voldemort's evil plan to send him to... to send him... to platform 9 and three-quarters?

Harry glanced around and saw that people—students--were boarding the train as they had done at the beginning of the year. Had he been sent back in time? Why? How far back was he?

Looking at the wizards and witches around him, he recognized students he knew. None of them looked much younger than they had been before he'd entered the maze. They all looked a bit different though, some of them vastly prettier, with glowing skin he couldn't recall them eve having had...

"Harry!" he looked over, drawing his wand, but it was only Hermione. At least, he thought it was Hermione.

Her orbs (eyes) were the color of hot chocolate, with flecks of warm caramel throughout—in fact, they looked simply delicious—and were rimmed by thick, dark lashes. Her lips were round and full, the color of strawberries, and her hair fell to her shoulders perfectly in neat cinnamon ringlets. The shirt she was wearing was bright red and rather low-cut, and if it was tight it was no where near as tight as her spanking white skinny jeans. Harry didn't recall Hermione being that curvy—or that slutty—at the beginning on the year, and as he examined her pretty face closer he realized she was wearing make-up.

"Why're you pointing your wand at me? Aren't you happy to see me?" Her voice was different, it was melodic, twinkling, beautiful, the voice of an angel. This was not Hermione, there was no way.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted, and the books she'd been holding flew out of Hermione's hands.

"Whoa, whoa, what's gotten into you?" Hermione demanded, throwing her hands into the air sarcastically.

"Who are you?!" Harry demanded, not lowering his wand.

"I'm Hermoine Granger! Your friend! You know, the bookish one who you'd never point your wand at?" Her sarcasm... Hermione had never been that sarcastic before. This definitely wasn't her. It must've been an enchanted inferi! Or maybe a death-eater couldn't get her hair to do a polyjuice potion, so they used a variety of enchantments to simulate her features—no doubt beauty charms—and they'd ended up making her much too pretty.

If it was a death-eater, then the people around him were probably death-eaters too... he didn't stand a chance. He had to play along until he could find away out. Lowering his wand and forcing a grin, he murmured, "I know, I know, only joking, Hermione."

As he helped her pick up her books, he heard an unfamiliar laugh behind him. It was cold, and harsh, but deep and rugged, too. He turned around, and was surprised to see that it belonged to Draco Malfoy... Except, Draco Malfoy didn't look quite like himself.

His skin caught Harry's eye first, mostly because of how splendidly it seemed to catch the light; it was like someone had gathered all the moonlight that came out by night, and stored it in Draco's skin by day, so that it glowed with paleness. His hair, usually a sickening sort of yellow, slicked back against his scalp, was lazy falling in off-gold strands into his eyes—oh his eyes! They weren't slate gray, as they had been, they were the purest of liquid silvers, and his eyelashes, instead of matching his hair and being near-invisible, were a becoming dark brown. Instead of looking scrawny and pointy, Draco looked incredibly fit and intimidating. Harry wanted to say it was the Quidditch practice, but sitting in a broom didn't produce a bum so amazing. In fact, Draco looked so glorious that Harry found himself blushing in his presence.

That sneering, snickering figure couldn't be Draco. But then, who was it? It would make sense for a death-eater to play Hermione, but the dark side had the real Draco—why would they bother with a fake? Harry's fingers found his wand again, but he froze when he noticed that Draco wasn't even looking at him—his silver eyes (spheres) were trained on Hermione.

"Picking up books with your boyfriend, mudblood? I never thought I'd see you check out a boy—usually you check out books. Hmm," Draco graced Harry with a gland and a sneer, then added, "If I were you, I'd stick to the books. Maybe that one," he gestured to the red leather-bound book Hermione was holding, "I read it, it's actually quite good, Robert Frost was a classy bloke." Smirking, Draco sauntered off, leaving both Harry and Hermione breathless. In fact, Harry was about to comment on the absurdity of Draco's insults when he remembered that it wasn't the real Draco, and he wouldn't be talking to the real Hermione.

"Wow," Hermione said, "I really hate him!"

"You do?" Harry asked, before he could stop himself, "I thought you always saw him as more of an immature ignorant bother who wasn't worth your time."

"No," Hermione shook her head, "I really truly hate him. And I was revenge."

"Revenge?" Harry repeated dumbly, "But... that's the sort of thing you'd tell me was stupid. That's the sort of action you discourage. It's petty. And you could get in trouble."

Hermione laughed, "Trouble's my middle name."

"No it's not, it's Jean," Harry was starting to become a little afraid, which was probably Voldemort's plan, but he was also reassured by the fact that fake-Hermione didn't seem to mind how Harry was doubting her identity. Maybe this fake-Hermione didn't know she was a fake... That would be more convincing, wouldn't it? No doubt part of Voldemort's plan.

Hermione laughed again, a ringing, musical, inhuman laugh. "Anyway," she said with a grin, "We should probably find Ron, eh? He could help with my revenge."

"Sure," Harry said, trying to sound casual, "Let's go wait on the train for him."

***

The compartment was a lot larger and cleaner than Harry remembered it being, and on the way Hermione had reminded him to sit in a particular one. Apparently they sat in the same one every year, which may have just been a detail had failed to notice.

"Hermione," Ron said, "You look great!" For a moment, Harry hoped that Ron had realized something was wrong too, but then he realized that Ron was just impressed.

Hermione scowled, but she was blushing, too. "Maybe if you weren't always so busy shoving food in your mouth, you'd notice that I've always looked like this!" she shouted at him. It was weird, somehow she looked prettier when she blushed, though most people looked like tomatoes. Ron was blushing, now, and he sort of looked like a tomato with freckles, but Harry still thought he looked unnaturally handsome compared to the Ron he knew—though he was a bit shorter.

"I didn't mean it like that! You always look great, I just don't always say something about it, ok?" Ron was a hell of a lot smoother, too.

"Oh," Hermione smiled again, "Um, thanks. I did try putting a bit of make-up on, you know? Ginny said it'd look nice on me."

"And you didn't feel insulted when Ginny told you to wear make-up?" Harry asked, one eyebrow raised.

"No, why would I?"

"Er, never-mind. So, you guys, um, excited for fourth-year?"

"You mean fifth-year?" Hermione corrected with a frown.

Ron snickered, but elbowed Harry and murmured, "S'alright, mate, I don't pay much attention to the year either. So long as we get older, you know?"

"Wait—so we're in fifth year?"

Hermione shook her head, "Honestly, Harry, you're hopeless. I just said, we're in sixth year."

"But you just said--" Harry was cut-off by the sound of the compartment door opening.

In walked the fake Weasley twins. Their faces and features were relatively unchanged, except they were both tall and thin, rather than short and broad.

"Knock knock," said Fred.

"Who's there?" asked George.

"Albus."

"Albus who?"

"Al bust be going, there are dementors after him!"

Everyone in the compartment except for Harry burst into laughter. Hermione's laugh was like a million beautiful bells, which was quite frightening as most people's laughs sounded like laughs. Ron's was a sort of thick barking that was somehow appealing. Fred's and George's were both a bit higher than Ron's, and sort of a cross between a cackle and an amused chuckle. Harry found himself scowling as he listened to the laughter—the whole thing was disorienting, it was as if his whole world had been charmed to be... prettier.

Soon the laughing died down, and the twins looked with concern at Harry. "What's got you down?" asked Fred, "Usually a joke that funny would've had you slapping your knee with laughter."

"Yeah," George murmured, "What's up? Girl turn you down? Was it our Ginny?"

Harry was grateful that Hermione answered before he could, because he wasn't sure he could've come up with a good answer.

"No, we just met with stupid Malfoy, is all," Hermione explained, her cheeks flushing with rage. "I'm so tired of him always picking on us!"

"He wasn't that bad," Harry offered, but it was as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"Merlin I hate him!" Hermione continued. Fred and George sat down opposite her just before she stood up, fire almost visible in her eyes... in fact it was visible. It was like something out of a muggle cartoon, decided Harry. "I would love—just once—to show him just now un-pathetic I am—how un-pathetic we all are! He can't just push us around all the time!"

"But he doesn't!" Harry tried to protest, but Hermione carried on.

"We can't just sit there and say nothing while he torments us!"

"He's a git but it's not like you haven't punched him--" Hermione spoke over Harry.

"I say it's time we take revenge! Who's with me?"

Fred and his brother cheered in agreement, and Harry did to, after the fact, to try and play along.

"So, uh, what do you have in mind?" Harry asked, a little afraid of his vengeance-seeking fake-Hermione.

"I'll make him fall in love with me!"

"How is that taking revenge?"

Hermione's jingling laugh turned maniacal, and Harry could've sworn he saw lightning outside the window. "You'll see," she murmured, a wicked smile spreading across her unnaturally-pretty face.

***

"Doesn't the sorting hat usually sing a song?" Harry asked Lee Jordan, who was sitting on his right.

"Oh, no, only for first-years."

"But, um, aren't there first years every year?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, I mean, don't they get to hear the song?"

"Uh, no, only we do."

"But aren't you in the grade above me? Doesn't that mean you never heard it?"

Harry looked from the strapping and handsome Lee Jordan to the sorting hat, and back at Lee Jordan, but somehow while he'd been eying the hat, Lee had started snogging Luna Lovegood. Quickly, Harry looked away from the scene, and in the process made eye contact with Albus Dumbledoor. At once, his scar began to burn, and for a moment it burned hotter than the flaming passion his godfather had for Remus Lupin, but then his forehead returned to normal.

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Harry asked himself, Where was he?


End file.
